


The Life After the Morning After

by saltyfeathers



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Accidental Domesticity, Accidental Marriage, Alternate Universe, M/M, Marriage Under the Influence, Road Trips, Waking Up in Vegas
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-22
Updated: 2013-11-22
Packaged: 2018-01-02 08:34:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,319
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1054700
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saltyfeathers/pseuds/saltyfeathers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean and Cas get uber drunk on their last day of University. They end up married. Neither of them seem to mind.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Life After the Morning After

**Author's Note:**

> at least it's not another hs au.
> 
> my VERY SINCERE apologies for the most likely grievous geography errors. i'm canadian, and practically allergic to research, so aside from a little wiki-ing and google imaging, i went on what little i know about america to construct dean and cas' road trip route. suspension of disbelief, while always an important factor in fiction such as this, is probably going to be of much assistance.

i.

 

Dean wakes up with a ring on his finger and a light in his eye. He glances across the room, and realizes the light bouncing into his eye is reflecting off the matching ring on the fourth finger of Cas’ left hand.

Also, they’re supposed to be moving out of their dorm room today.

Also, they’re now officially graduated university.

Also, they have to decide what to do with the rest of their lives.

And the most important _also_ :

They’re married. 

***

**Over Twenty Four Hours Earlier**

“Dude, this is a _great_ idea,” Dean enthuses, eyes huge and glassy, breath reeking of cheap whiskey (student loans don’t leave much room for luxuries like awesome alcohol, scholarship or not).

Cas is sprawled across his bed in their shared dorm room, limbs lazy and sloppy as he gestures aimlessly at the ceiling.

“I was under the impression that people only get married because they love each other and want to make babies…” Cas’ eyes widen at something he’s probably imagining on the ceiling, and puffs his cheeks up, then blowing out like he just took a cool guy drag on a cigarette. “Or not,” he eventually adds thoughtfully.

Dean dismisses him with a prissy _tsssk_ and a flapping hand.

“Shit, Cas, of course I love you, man,” he’s incredibly earnest in his drunken state, even though the sentiment is somewhat undermined by the slug of beer he takes immediately after- _Liquor before beer, you’re in the clear_ , after all. “You’re my best friend, dude. So that means we should get married.”

Cas shakes his head, ghost of a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. Smiles from Cas are a rare thing, worthy of a _National Geographic_ endangered species spread, for sure.

“Dean, I know I’m just a computer science major- nothing like the high and mighty psychology majors- but even I can tell you that the amount of qualifiers you use in your speech – man, bro, dude- are a paper thin facsimile to hide your fears of your sexuality being called into question. So perhaps same sex marriage isn’t something you should be considering just yet.”

Dean puts his beer bottle down with a definitive thump, and points a silent finger at Cas, obviously so flabbergasted that he’s unable to form coherent words at the moment. The finger stays pointing at him, obtrusive and slightly disturbing, and actually quite reminiscent of the Uncle Sam posters of decades past, and Dean suddenly, drunkenly wonders if he’s just related to all the Sams of the world.

Yeah, he’s definitely related to Samuel L. Jackson. Fuck you, ancestry dot com.

“Dude,” he says again, and Cas snorts, “I’m gay.”

A beat. Then an appropriate, “Oh. Shit,” from a shamefaced Cas, “Nevermind, then.”

Dean’s wearing his patented, perfectly smug, _I told you so_ face.

“Sorry, man, take me-and that’s not an innuendo- or leave me, gay and dudebro qualifiers all part of the package.”

“I-” Cas struggles to sit up, has to turn onto his side for a moment to breathe heavily, and Dean thinks, _dear god, my best friend/roommate is going to hurl, and there’s no way that’s not the worst response to a coming out ever. I knew I should have asked him who he voted for_. Cas groans, quiet, and plasters an arm over his stomach. “I’ve had a _lot_ to drink,” he admits, and even Dean has to acquiesce that Cas is looking a little green around the gills.

Dean himself is pretty fucking tipsy, considering this definitely wasn’t the way he planned on telling Cas that he was strictly into dick. Especially not on their last night of university.

But apparently he now has a figurative and literal-if Cas’ dry heaves are anything to go by- mess that’s going to need to be cleaned up in the morning. First things first, though.

Dean takes the garbage out of their trash can, ties it, and tosses it into the corner of the room. He brings the empty can over to Cas’ bedside, and pats him gingerly on the shoulder.

“Let it out, man,” he says, as consolingly as possible, and now it’s going to bother him every time he says one of his patented Dean Winchester generic nicknames, and damn it, Cas, this is all your fault.

Dean sits on the edge of his bed and waits patiently for the grossly hollow sound of vomit hitting the bottom of the trash can to stop. When he hears a moan that he translates as, I hate my life, he figures that’s about it. As he’s moving the can to the end of Cas’ bed, he accidentally gets a whiff.

“We’re gonna have to fucking powerwash that puppy,” he mumbles, and decides to forgo his bed for the rolling chair at the desk they share. His bed is covered in clothes and half packed boxes, anyways. They’re not exactly prepared for move day, but he’s drunk and can’t really be bothered to care at the moment. When he’s packing tomorrow through a hangover though, he knows he’ll want to punch his past self square in the kisser.

“How you doing over there?” he casually shoots Cas’ way. Cas, who is currently curled in the fetal position on his bed amidst masses of random shit that’s accumulated over the year, says something that’s muffled by either a forearm or a pile of dirty underwear, but Dean manages to translate it as, “I’m dying.”

Dean, iron stomached and undeterred, takes another sip of his beer.

“If it makes you feel better,” he starts, kicking his socked heels up onto their desk, “I don’t want to marry you so we can have babies together. We’ll let the biology nerds deal with that. I want to marry you cause you’re my best friend.”

Cas says _guuuuuuuuh_ , and then he says to his pillow, “It’s an interesting take on the institution of marriage.”

Dean shrugs even though Cas isn’t looking at him.

“What’s also interesting is how you manage to talk like a fuckin’ textbook even when you’re smashed and throwing chunks like it’s some sort of competition.”

“Force of habit,” Cas mumbles, and mashes his face further into his pillow.

“Look,” Dean says, laying it all out. He takes his heels off the desk and spins around to face Cas, even though Cas seems only interested in facing his pillow at the moment, “We get like, tax breaks and shit, right? That’s… good, I think? I actually don’t know anything about taxes.”

“Same sex marriage is only allowed in thirteen states,” Cas says, finally deciding to turn himself over. He’s speaking to the ceiling, as he can’t seem to grant himself the strength to sit up and actually have the conversation like a normal person, but Dean has faith he’ll get there. “And we’re currently in Nevada, which isn’t one of them.”

“What’s the nearest state where we _can_ get married, then?”

Cas finally sits up, and Dean thinks it’s with the right amount of dramatic gravity that he says, “Las Vegas.”

“…Okay.” Dean says slowly, considering, “One, Las Vegas is _in_ Nevada, Cas. Two, Las Vegas isn’t a state. And three, if we can get married in Las Vegas, then we can get married in Nevada.”

Cas points a finger directly at the ceiling.

“Right,” he says with finality, “We’re not in Kansas anymore. I forgot,” he drops his arm a little too hard, and smacks himself in the face with a boneless hand, “Ah.  Domestic partnership. Not marriage,” he clarifies, big blue eyes finally meeting Dean’s.

Dean’s already up and shrugging a less smelly shirt on.

“Sounds good,” he says, and grabs a beer to go.

So it’s with an extremely disgruntled, extremely bribed neighbor from across the hall that they pile into a car at one in the morning, citing a sudden need for _fun_ , and please, Jo, we’re drunk, and we’ll pay you in whatever form of currency you find acceptable, and jesus fucking christ, fine, Dean, but just know that I hate you and you suck, fuckwad.

It’s not a terribly long drive. About twenty minutes, with Cas passed out in the backseat and Dean (extremely irresponsibly and also illegally) drinking beer in the front, as Jo shoots him dirty looks every now and again.

“You better hope we don’t get pulled over by the cops, or else I _will_ kill you,” Jo informs him.

Dean raises his beer bottle.

“Cheers to that,” he takes a swig, and then gestures hard enough that he slaps his hand against the closed window. “Ow. Anyways, it’s two in the morning, Jo. The cops aren’t gonna stop us.”

“We’re in fucking Vegas, dude. There’s always cops. Anyways, it’s the end of the year, and this is the last time you get a favor from me, Winchester. Revel in it.”

Dean grins and writhes in the passenger seat.

“Is this reveling enough for you, Jo? Issssss it?” He continues to squirm, rubbing his hands all over his face, “Ooooh so good. Mmmmmmmm- ow, what the hell was that for?” He rubs at the spot on his shoulder where she just punched him.

“Bribe or not, I will turn this car around.”

“Okay mom, geeze.”

Dean finally shuts up, and drinks the rest of his beer in silence. He figures that, since he’s getting married tonight, this is kind of like his bachelor party.

Dean tells Jo to stop once they’re a couple minutes away from a twenty four hour chapel, and has to practically drag a grumbling Cas out of the backseat. Jo throws his empty beer bottle at him through the passenger side window, and drives off, probably muttering something about how she’s glad she’ll never have to deal with Dean’s shit ever again after tonight. Dean can’t really blame her, since this isn’t the first impromptu midnight road trip he’s subjected her to.

Cas glares at him the entire way to the chapel, and Dean’s grinning like a moron, slapping an open palm to Cas’ chest, cause, “We’re getting married , dude! How fucked is that?”

“No one is getting fucked tonight,” Cas grouses, running a hand through already incredibly fucked hair, “Unless they want to use vomit as lube.”

Dean wrinkles his nose, but grabs Cas’ hand regardless, and then they’re in the chapel, and it’s kind of a drunken, neon bright whirlwind from there. There are ill-fitting tuxes that have crusted stains from various bodily fluids over the years, there’s rings the came from… somewhere. There’s vows that probably just consist of a lot of gibberish, and their random witness looks equal parts bored and sympathetic, as if they’ll regret this in the morning, but she can’t really bring herself to care. They kiss when the guy in charge tells them to, but it’s more of a chaste, say-goodbye-to-your-grandma kiss, not exactly the typical burning passion of two sloppy drunk dudes getting hitched. Then they’re walking out the door, and for a second Dean thinks people are throwing rice, all traditional, but then he realizes it’s actually raining, and he’s getting soaked through, so he gropes for Cas’ hand, and they make a break for an idle taxi.

It’s a silent ride back, and Cas falls asleep again.

They stumble over each other back to their dorm, hands easy and casual, and crash unceremoniously through the door, before flopping onto their respective beds.

Dean lays there for a moment before it actually sinks in- as much as it can in his inebriated state, at least.

“Cas,” he hisses, “Cas!”

There’s a muffled sound that probably means Cas is at least half listening.

“We just got married- domestic partnered, whatever.”

“Mmph.”

“Cool.”

***

It’s not as cool in the morning, however, as the memories come back sluggishly. It’s also not cool that they’re both hungover as shit, that they have to be out of the dorms by five, and that they have literally no idea where they’re going next.

They’re going together, of course. It’s just a matter of geography.

“We could always go back to Kansas for the summer,” Cas suggests, piling terribly folded clothes into a duffel bag, “Take a breather, figure things out.”

But Dean can hear in his voice that Cas isn’t into it, and really, he’s not too interested either. His parents are long gone, and Sam’s off at Stanford in California. There’s nothing for him there.

Dean shakes his head.

“There’s no point, is there?”

Cas just shrugs. Dean knows he’s not exactly chomping at the bit to see what family he has left, either. He’s silent as he wrestles a wafflemaker (of all things) into a bag, and Dean stops what he’s doing to watch Cas.

“This is fucking dumb,” he blurts out before he has a chance to think it over. “We don’t need a wafflemaker, Cas.”

Cas stops wrestling with the hulking thing for a moment, arching an eyebrow.

“We didn’t need a wafflemaker when you insisted on buying one two months ago, either,” he says evenly.

Dean ignores him to stand up and take stock of all the to-be-packed stuff in their room. He walks over to their desk, which is full of papers and beer bottles and various, studious things that they most definitely don’t need anymore. Dean’s never going to write another essay again, if he can help it.

“We don’t need any of this stuff,” he decides, gesturing at the whole room. “Like, there’s just so much _shit_ , dude.” He waves around some sort of tinsel-y school flag that somehow ended up under his nightstand to make his point.

“In fact,” he continues, grabbing his duffel bag off the floor as Cas watches neutrally. He drops the duffel on his bed, and tosses a couple pairs of jeans in. Next go the boxers, socks, plaid. Never forget the plaid. Toiletries. Then a half full bottle of whiskey that still makes him a little queasy, thanks to his overindulgence last night, followed by the roll of condoms he always keeps on him and a small bottle of lube.

He winks lewdly at Cas as he drops the last few items in, and Cas, to his credit, just rolls his eyes.

“We may be married now, but I think you’re being a little overoptimistic,” he says, deadpan.  

Dean stops fiddling with the bag’s zipper, and chews on his lip for a moment.

“Yeah,” he finally says, spinning around and perching on the end of his bed. Cas just looks at him, like always. “Yeah, I guess we should talk about that, huh?” He scratches the back of his neck awkwardly. As far as drunk decisions go, it wasn’t the best.  Dean also takes comfort in the fact that it hasn’t been the worst he’s ever made. That title is still proudly held by the night he called Sam at three in the morning and sobbed over the phone about the Tenth Doctor’s exit on _Doctor Who_ (“He _didn’t want to go_ , Sammy, goddammit. I didn’t want him to go either!”). For sixty three minutes straight. By minute fifteen, Sam had his laptop recording Dean’s blubberings, and the fucker still uses bits of it as his ringtone.

So, no, not that bad. Never that bad again, if Dean can help it.

Cas fixes him with one of his patented weirdo Cas stares, and by this point in their friendship, Dean’s learned to take the strangely intense vibe in stride.

“I don’t care,” Cas says, unbothered.

If it were anyone else, Dean would assume Cas was lying out his ass. But, as usual, because it’s Cas, Dean takes it for what it is. Brutal, often uncomfortable honesty.

“You don’t?” Dean says, if only to suss out whatever weird reasoning is ticking away in Cas’ weird brain.

“Marriage is a fairly arbitrary concept,” Cas says by way of explanation, “to me, anyway. So, no, it means nothing. Unless you plan to murder me and run away with my millions,” he tacks on, glint in his eye.

Dean scoffs, ignoring the little twang in his gut at Cas’ perfectly Cas-like way of explaining things. “What, your millions of socks, you hoarder? I don’t think so. Only one foot fetish per married couple. It’s a rule.”

“I don’t have a foot fetish, Dean.”

“Yeah, tell that to your fifteen pairs of ugly Christmas socks,” Dean counters, zipping up his duffel and giving it one final, satisfied pat.

“Well,” he announces, surveying the mess still littering their room, “I’m done.”

Cas looks like he’s not buying what Dean’s selling, but Dean just starts piling things into a wayward garbage bag.

“I don’t wanna lug this stuff around with me,” he says, even though Cas didn’t ask, “I’ve got what I need. Everything else can be figured out later.”

Cas still doesn’t say anything, but his eyes narrow, which means he’s thinking hard. Dean putters around the room, getting rid of all the debris, while Cas thinks about whatever it is Cas generally thinks about. He turns around for a couple minutes to start fishing crap out from behind his bed, and when he faces Cas again, he’s got his own small suitcase all packed and zipped.

Dean smirks and claps Cas on the shoulder.

“You learn fast, husband of mine.”

Cas narrows his eyes at Dean, but this time it’s not his thinking face, but his smitey face. Dean grins and goes back to work.

“So we’re just gonna… _go_ ,” Dean says, as he sticks worryingly crunchy Kleenexes into the garbage.

“I suppose,” Cas says, and the lazy bastard’s still sitting on his bed, watching Dean clean. Dean knows for a fact that if Cas lived on his own, he could literally go for weeks without touching a cleaning utensil, and would still be just as serene as a fat cat lying in the sun. At least with Dean around, the mess stays just this side of typical college dorm room. For what it’s worth, Jo’s room usually looks like a bomb hit it, which is probably part of the reason why she was so ticked when they woke her last night, since she had a veritable dump to clean in the morning.

Dean nods, and feels his stomach flip with something that’s half excitement, half nerves. He’s not sure how far they’ll get, but between his part-time job at the garage, and Cas doing whatever he does with computers, he figures they have enough saved for at least a little while. He’s managed to stay debt free (and even in the black) during his run at university, thanks to scholarships, frugality, and the aforementioned job.  The fact that he sold his parent’s house fully furnished in his first year, and split the profits with a still-under-Bobby’s care Sam, certainly helped with the bills as well.

And thanks to Sam’s school fund that their mom had set up and his own hard won scholarships, the kid’s pretty much set for his years at school too, meaning Dean or Bobby don’t need to worry about that particular expense, either. Not that Sam would ever let them help out, anyways.

“We could go see Sam,” Dean suggests, “Before he heads back to Bobby’s for the summer. He’s staying with friends for a couple weeks in San Francisco.”

“Sure,” Cas says amicably, but his voice is distant, drifting, and Dean already knows he’s checked out for the time being.

“Alrighty then.” Dean continues his trash purge silently, and is just getting ready to sweep all the crap off their desk, when Cas interrupts him.

“I don’t care that you’re gay, Dean,” he says, surprisingly serious. (And that’s saying a lot, for Cas.)

Dean looks up, a little thrown.

“Well,” he says, dropping beer bottles into the bag, “I figured you wouldn’t. Since you, y’know, married me last night.”

“I just wanted you to know that my opinion hasn’t changed, since sobering up. And it’s a domestic partnership, Dean.”

“… Yeah, I figured _that_ when you told me like two seconds ago that you didn’t care that we were still… partners, or whatever. Domestically.”

“Okay,” Cas says, and that’s that. And the little shit still doesn’t bother to help clean up.

***

Their room is cleaned out by half past four, and as glad as he is to be out of school, he can’t help but feel like it’s the end of an era.

The two of them stand in the doorway of their room, and it’s uncomfortable empty.

“Man,” Dean says, quiet, “Remember our first night in here? I tripped over your fucking cereal bowl and landed flat on my face and you laughed at me for like half an hour.”

Cas’ eyes spark at the memory.

“You never paid me back for the cereal and milk I lost to that debacle, you know,” he informs Dean.

Dean elbows Cas in the ribs gently.

“You never compensated me for my pain and suffering, either. Or my hurt pride,” he retorts.

Dean’s gaze is reverent. They’d only spent one out of four years in this room, but it’s still enough of a culmination of everything that had been the Dean and Cas university experience that it makes his chest ache a little to think of leaving it all behind. Pillow forts, video game marathons, beer pong, cram sessions, even a really nasty fight or two. It all happened in this room, and every other one they’ve shared over the years. Dean feels like he’s left fingerprints all over this damn school, and it’s weird to think that a new year will be starting in September and he won’t be a part of it.

He glances at Cas beside him, and he can tell that he’s feeling the same way. Their bags are already packed into the Impala and they’ve already said all their goodbyes, so the only thing left to go now is the two of them.

“Ready?” he asks quietly, and Cas jumps a little bit. His eyes flick from the room to Dean’s face, and then back again. He nods, and Dean slings an easy arm around his shoulder, and they make their way outside.

They slide into the Impala, side by side, and both spare their building one last glance.

“It’s weird,” Cas says, and he doesn’t need to explain what, exactly, is weird.

“Yeah,” Dean starts the car, and the familiar roar of the engine helps clear his head a little. His hangover has faded by now, so he doesn’t have an excuse for the squiggling in his gut. That’s pure, unadulterated nerves.

They pull out of the parking lot, and in just a few minutes, they’re on I-15, heading towards California.

“We could be at Sam’s by tonight,” Dean says, over the rush of spring wind in the car, and glances over at Cas, forearm dangling out the window, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, the picture of ease.

All Cas has to do is look at him right, all it takes is a raised eyebrow that asks, is that what you _really_ want to do? And Dean has his answer.

He pulls his cell phone out of his pocket, dials Sam’s number by heart.

“Heya, Sam,” he greets, “Me and Cas are headed your way in the next little bit… No, I’m not talking on my phone while driving…” he says, talking on his phone while driving, “Yeah, congrats to you, too. Honor roll, I assume?... Good on ya… When will we be there?” he grins over at Cas, who actually awards him with a small, mischievous grin in return. “A week or so, I’d say.”

They talk for another few minutes, until Sam finally badgers him enough to hang up the phone, because “you’re never gonna make it to San Francisco with a cell phone attached to your ear, Dean”, and Dean just grins and grins, and turns on some music, and even forces Cas to speak-sing along to some good old Geddy Lee with him, and he’s so ready for this.

_They’re_ so ready, and the dying light of the day glints off the ring on his finger, and he grins at that, too.

***

“Oh, fuck,” Dean says, seventy five miles later, “I forgot my toothbrush.”

 

ii.

 

 

 “This is kind of like our honeymoon,” Cas says out of the blue, in the lull between Styx albums.

In the passenger seat, Dean, searching his embarrassingly outdated box of cassette tapes, stops rummaging to raise his gaze to the side of Cas’ face.

“Yeah?” he comments carefully, and Cas, not taking his eyes off the road, nods.

“It’s how most newlyweds do it, right?” he asks, tone frustratingly devoid of any kind of specific emotion, save professional, detached curiosity, “Though most couples tend to go to tropical destinations to celebrate and possibly consummate their marriage, whereas we’re driving through central California to go visit your brother.”

Dean, half paralyzed, takes a second to work through that sentence in his head, before replying with a neutral, “Yeah, I guess.”

Cas accepts the point with a typical, “hm,” and then says nothing else. The silence stretches between them, music forgotten, just the rumble of the Impala underneath and around them. Dean’s palms are inexplicably sweaty. Cas, as ever, is unaffected.

“Just don’t expect me to carry you over the threshold, bridal style,” Dean manages to joke, though his traitorous mind is already conjuring up scenarios in which bridal style is not only an option, but the _only_ option.

Cas raises a brow.

“Given that your version of working out is switching positions on your bed so you can get a better angle of your laptop screen, I somehow doubt you’d be able to carry anything over any threshold. If anything, I’d be the one to carry _you_.”

“What?” Dean squawks, discomfort forgotten in the face of indignation, “You’ve got to be kidding me. No way you can carry me. Muscle weights more than fat, so I’m like, the equivalent of the Hulk when he’s green and angry. Besides,” he sniffs snobbily, “I’m taller than you.”

“Okay,” Cas allows, easy, and Dean sees the smirk playing at the corners of his mouth. He’s baiting him, like a fucking jerk.

“Pull the car over,” And Dean bites, because hey, everyone’s been a fish at one point on the evolutionary scale, right? Dean’s actually not sure- bio was never really his thing- but his pride is at stake here. He’s going to rectify this.

Wordlessly, Cas pulls over and blinks the hazards on. At least they’re on a relatively deserted backroad where they won’t get rear ended or strange looks from passing cars. He looks at Dean expectantly.

“Okay,” Dean says, laying down the law, “We’re going to solve this, fair and square.” He grabs the box of cassette tapes, and upends it between them on the seats. He rests his right elbow on the bottom of the box, and pointedly glances at the part where Cas is supposed to mirror his position.

“What’s happening,” Cas says, flat.

“We’re settling this,” Dean says, turning his hand over, palm facing up. He curls his fingers up in a _bring it on_ motion, “Like how all disagreements should be settled,” he manoeuvers his fingers into a hand gun, and fake shoots at Cas with a wink added in for good measure, “Arm wrestling,” he declares.

Cas just stares at him.

“I’m left handed,” he protests, “So it wouldn’t be fair, since if you use your right hand that means I have to use my right hand as well.”

Dean rolls his eyes, probably more dramatically than the situation calls for, and switches elbows resting on the box like it’s causing him a great deal of pain.

“There you go, you big baby. _I’ll_ use my left hand, take one for the team.”

Cas sighs, long suffering, and turns sideways as best he can in the somewhat cramped conditions, squaring his shoulders and sliding his right leg up onto the seat, bent at the knee. He leans over and places his left elbow on the box, hand outstretched. Dean clasps their hands together, and hears their dull metallic rings clink together.

“Okay,” Dean says, “I know you don’t like, generally know the rules to shit like this, but it’s pretty simple. I put my other hand on top of our hands, and when I take it off, we each try to bend the other person’s forearm down to the box. Capiche?”

“I capiche.” Cas says solemnly, staring at their hands like he’s trying to pull some Jedi mind trick- or he’s constipated.

“Cool. Prepare to suck.”

 Dean places a (fairly sweaty, actually) palm on top of their hands, and makes sure he’s holding Cas’ gaze before starting- as far as he knows, the guy actually can bend spoons with his mind. He’s never seen it _disproved_ , after all, and he wants to make sure there’s no unholy reach arounds as far as this deathmatch goes. He’s already working at a disadvantage by using his left hand.

“Okay,” Dean says, and tightens his grip on Cas’ hand, “Good to go?”

Cas nods, eyes narrowing, because he squints when he’s concentrating and Dean’s never really figured out why. Maybe the guy just needs glasses.

And then just like Dean’s right hand on his dick in the shower, they’re off.

Immediately, Dean regrets this decision.

Cas is a wiry little fucker, but he’s strong as shit, and as if that’s not bad enough, Dean finds himself suddenly, inexorably drawn to the way the tendons tighten under the thin skin of Cas’ wrist as he tenses the muscles there.  Cas remains composed, eyes locked on Dean’s, and their hands are still fairly matched, but Dean can feel his purchase slipping. His palm is _so fucking sweaty Jesus Christ_ and he can feel it sliding in Cas‘ grip.

“Your hand is very sweaty,” Cas observes wryly, still not breaking eye contact with Dean. His eyes are light and clear from the sun streaming in through the passenger side window behind Dean, and Dean has to blink before schooling his features enough to scoff.

It’s kind of sad that the first comeback that pops into Dean’s head is, _your hand is very nice_. Not exactly one of the totally sick burns Dean is so apt to make, despite the protests and eye rolls of his younger brother.

Dean’s staring at their clasped hands now, silently willing that his sweat won’t facilitate an incredibly ridiculous slip’n’slide effect with his forehead ending up bashing Cas on the chin because their hands slid apart.

He’s losing space again, Cas having his arm at about a forty five degree angle to the box bottom. It doesn’t even look like the guy is struggling, let alone experiencing any sort of physical exertion.  He’s as cool as a cucumber, completely collected, and for some reason that thought is sending a flush scurrying up and around the back of Dean’s neck and the tips of his ears.

“Christ, Cas,” Dean pants, and damn, the guy has a tight grip, “You been lifting weights while I’ve been asleep or what?”

“No,” Cas says simply, and Dean tries to spare his ego the hit by reminding it how good looking he is. Green eyes, freckles, well-proportioned features- _c’mon, Winchester, you’re a champ_.

He breathes in, holds it deep, and searches for that deep seated second tank of energy athletes are apparently supposed to have and call upon in the last minutes of the big game, but after floundering desperately for any lick of fuel, Dean remembers how much gas prices have gone up since he last heard that dumb metaphor (thanks, soccer obsessed Sam circa 2008), and is disheartened to see the back of his hand skirt another inch towards the box.

Cas is just _sitting_ there, smug as anything, and Dean can’t believe this is happening. This is only supposed to happen in movies so the lead can assert how cool and awesome they are. And he’s going to be the _guy that loses_. The credits are rolling behind his eyeballs now, and Cas gets top billing and he’s the last name on the cast list, _arm wrestle guy_.

“Alright,” Dean finally decides, struggling way more than he’s comfortable with, “I’m going ghost, man,” he announces dramatically, and he throws all his strength into one last thrust.

“I don’t know what that means,” Cas says mildly, and slams Dean’s hand into the top of the box, victorious.

It’s a fucking smooth win, actually, and Dean gapes at Castiel for the next fifteen seconds straight, while Cas fixes his cuffs non-chalantly, even though he’s not wearing a dress shirt.

“Okay,” he says, like that’s supposed to tell Dean something, and gets out of the car. He walks around to Dean’s side and opens the passenger’s door, waiting expectantly. “Get out,” he says, once it’s clear Dean doesn’t want to move until he knows what he’s getting into.

“Uhm, Cas-” Dean starts, still trying to process that he is, in fact, that extra in that movie, but Cas doesn’t seem to interested in having it, at the moment, because he immediately starts speaking over Dean, saying, “This was part of the deal, Dean. Get out.”

And Dean’s still seeing a weird combination of the muscle working under delicate wrist tissue and skylit eyes, so he acquiesces this time and gets out of the car, even though he can’t recall what this part of the deal is supposed to be.

“Oh god you’re divorcing me,” Dean laments, only half-joking, as he follows Cas a little ways away from the car, off the gravel shoulder and over the dip of the ditch to a field full of yellowing grass, “You don’t want to have to split the assets and you don’t want to share the kids so you’re gonna kill me and pretend I just kicked town like a deadbeat dad oh my god Cas give me one more chance I swear I won’t fuck-”

Cas spins around, and in an unsurprising show of typical Cas dexterity, he has two fingers smushed against Dean’s lips.

“Shut up,” he says, and only takes his fingers away after Dean nods resolutely, glint in his eye that immediately makes Dean nervous.

“Oh my god you _are_ going to kill me,” he marvels, and Cas rolls his eyes.

Cas takes a step towards him, and Dean takes a step back, brow quirked.

“This is part of the deal, Dean,” Cas says patiently, taking another step.

“I think you and I have very different ideas on what the terms of this deal are,” Dean gripes back, but holds his ground this time, meaning they’re only about a foot apart.

“No, I’m fairly certain this was discussed,” Cas says, mouth serious but eyes laughing. And before Dean can come up with a suitable quip in reply (because really, he’s not too picky) Cas rushes him. He leans down and has one forearm knocking Dean’s knees out from under him, and one wrapped around his mid back, and he’s lifting him (with a quiet, exertive grunt that Dean would smirk at under other circumstances) yep- bridal style.

“Oh fuck you,” he says, once he realizes what’s happening, and Cas is full on grinning- _grinning_ \- down at him, and okay this isn’t funny, it’s just that Cas is _smiling_ , and that’s not something he does a lot, so Dean’s traitorous mouth trying to smile back means absolutely nothing.

“I’m making a point,” Cas says gravely, tone belied by the ridiculous fucking grin plastered across his face. “Do you want me to carry you back to the Impala?”

Dean tries his best to shoot laser death eyes at Cas, but the fucker seems too pleased with himself to notice.

“Okay then,” Cas adjusts his arms around Dean when he doesn’t answer, and starts making his way back to the car.

Dean crosses his arms petulantly, satisfied when the movement jostles Cas, who’s currently trying to climb into the dry ditch.

“This is ridiculous,” he complains, as Cas adjusts his position again.

“Yes,” Cas says, a little out of breath, “I heartily agree.”

They’re climbing up the other side of the ditch when Dean finally takes pity on the guy.

“Okay, Cas, you’ve made your point. Put me down before you black out.”

To Dean’s surprise, Cas shakes his head.

“I’m not going to drop you, Dean,” he says seriously, and possibly with multiple meanings.

“Uh,” Dean says awkwardly, “You can just put me down. No dropping needed.”

Cas looks down at him for a moment, gaze that special flavor of determined Dean’s now learned to associate with him. It’s, _if you think this is up for negotiation, you are sorely mistaken_.

Cas gets like this sometimes, weirdly declarative about their friendship. He’s not the most in touch with his emotions Dean’s ever seen (Sam still holds that particular crown) but when he gets in the mood, he can say stuff that would make a stone blush. He has no sense of propriety or societal norms to hold him back from saying shit (usually to Dean) that Dean’s pretty sure he’ll never forget. (And if he’s being really honest, he never wants to forget them, either. Cas has a way of making him feel like he could climb mountains.)

Dean, on the other hand, is much more susceptible to bouts of fervent emotion after a few too many beers, as evidenced by the ring currently wrapped around his fourth finger. It’s not exactly a _bad_ thing, per se, since it’s probably contributed to letting Cas know just how much he means to Dean. Of course, it would be better for Dean to say these things sober, which he’s working on. Slowly.

However, Dean’s also pretty good at emoting during potential relationship ending fights. It’s his fight or flight instinct kicking in, the clench in his gut that tells him if he doesn’t say the right thing now, then he can say goodbye to one of the most important people in his life. That usually wrings some sentiment out of him.

Cas got into some pretty heavy shit about a year ago, which was probably one of the worst times in Dean’s life. Cas fell in with some sketchy people, did some sketchy things, and worst of all, pulled away from Dean and refused to talk about it.

That was when the really bad fights happened. The cold shoulders and the harsh words (a lot of said words coming from Dean’s end, because he never knows when to shut the hell up- especially when he feels the conversation slipping through his fingers). But there were days when he just couldn’t do it anymore, and broke down and begged , often through vicious, hot tears burning in his eyes. Words like “family” and “need” and “love” got thrown around a lot during those conversations, and eventually, Dean and Cas pulled through.

Really, for an emotionally stunted guy like Dean, it’s amazing how much he’s ruled by what’s behind his rib cage rather than an eager dick or a limpid brain.

They have years of history behind them, having met on the first day of university in their soon to be shared dorm room. They’ve been through an incredible amount of shit, and still somehow managed to come out the other side together. Which is why Dean thinks it’s completely and utterly ridiculous that when Cas says shit like that, shit like, _I’m not going to drop you_ , he still feels the same flutter in his chest that he did the first time Cas vomited horrifically life affirming axioms at him.

At least with that said it’s easy to understand the reasoning behind his drunk self’s proposal of marriage, even if his sober self still questions the extremely prompt follow through.

They make it back to the car, and Dean’s just glad he doesn’t have to judo chop himself out of Cas’ hold after he’s put down. He’s thankful for small favors when Cas doesn’t insist on placing him in the car and buckling him in as well.

“That was a really pointless thing to do,” Dean points out, leaning against the car, even if what he means to say is, _you didn’t need to prove how much you care about me and also beat me at arm wrestling you jerk_.

Cas just shrugs.

“I agree.”

“Well then,” Dean taps a finger on his denim clad thigh for a moment, does a 180 degree scan of the surrounding area (fields. Lots of fields.) and eventually releases a breath.

“You’re a doorknob, Cas,” he declares fondly, pushing himself off the door and walking around to the other side of the car. “Also, I’m driving.”

Cas just nods and slides into the passenger seat. After Dean’s started the Impala up, and they’re back to roaring down the road, Cas turns to Dean.

“As a doorknob, I’d just like to say that your crotch vicinity is very nice.”

Dean’s eyebrows pull together, and he purses his lips, squints his eyes like he’s looking into the sun.

“I’m sorry, what?” he asks, polite only because he literally has no idea how he’s supposed to react to a statement like that. He _thinks_ Cas just complimented his dick, but he’s not entirely _sure_.

“Well you insist on thrusting your crotch into the immediate vicinity of doorknobs every time you need to use one, so I just figured I’d give you some feedback.”

Cas has a really fucking weird sense of humor. Jesus Christ.

That’s another Cas thing. The jokes that don’t land like jokes but aren’t just statements pulled from the fucking far far away lands of extensive bong hits, either. In fact, Dean’s come to the conclusion over the years that these little conversational detours aren’t even jokes, but just that- conversation. This is just how Cas chooses to carry it.

Sometimes Dean plays along, sometimes he doesn’t.

“For the record,” Dean answers, “I don’t _thrust_ my crotch at just any doorknob, Cas. Only _you_.”

Oh. Well that wasn’t what he wanted to say at all.

“I just mean,” Dean continues hastily, trying to bluster over the Freudian slip and forever condemning his big mouth, “Um. Fuck,” Why did he settle on calling Cas a _doorknob_ , for Christ’s sake? Rookie insult.  He’ll have to self-flagellate later.

“Look,” he says, “That doesn’t- I’m not-” _In love with you and apparently thrusting my clothed dick at you a lot- “_ Don’t change the subject, Cas,” he finally settles on, face on fire.

Cas stares at him unwaveringly, without blinking.

“Okay,” he says, smirk in his voice if not in his expression, and Dean knows that he knows he’s the biggest little shit to ever grace this toilet bowl of a world.

Dean tries to put on his unaffected, patented Cool Guy face, but he’s already lost that particular mystique by being more flustered than Anne Hathaway at the beginning of _The Devil Wears Prada_.

Whatever. No big. He’s cool. He’s good. He’s Smooth Talker McHandsome Face. All he needs is a makeover and a montage and soon he’ll be locating unpublished scripts of the newest Harry Potter book like a pro.

So when he next speaks, and, “Are you a spherical doorknob or one of those long ones that gets caught on belt loops,” comes out of his mouth, he briefly considers swerving into oncoming traffic just to shut himself up permanently, and he laments his imagined position as Miranda Priestly’s intern, because he definitely just got fired.

 “Does this count as changing the subject?” Cas asks wryly, and Dean feels himself losing grip on the situation embarrassingly fast. FUBAR, SNAFU, mayday, code red code blue code fuckin’ fushia, just get him the fuck out of here, and why did he need to make it _worse_?

“ _Yes_ ,” Dean says emphatically, karate chopping the air to really hit the point home, slapping the side of his palm down onto his thigh.

“Hands at ten and two,” Cas reminds him mildly, out of habit, which is a fucking disgrace because Cas drives even more lazily than Dean- except for the days he drives like he sat on a spark plug at breakfast and just decided to not bother extracting it. Dean’s really stopped trying to figure out why Cas does a lot of the things he does.

“Also,” he tacks on casually- _too casually_ , Dean’s mind immediately notes with apprehension- “if you were to brush by my closed door in a hallway, I would definitely catch in your belt loop.”

Dean coughs very loudly, but not because he’s trying to violently dispel the image that just popped into his head through the force of the hole in the middle of his face he’s constantly putting his foot in. Not at all.

Not to mention that that’s possibly (nay, definitely) the most awful attempt at innuendo Dean’s ever heard, and yet he’s impossibly _perky_ regardless.

Only Cas.

Who, by the way, is looking at him weirdly; maybe smugly, Dean’s way too biased at the moment to know for sure.

“Swallowed a bug,” he says, by way of explanation.

“Ah,” Cas nods seriously, and after a moment of what seems like fairly intense thinking, says, “If you swallow an insect with a stinger, what do you think the chances are of it stinging you from the inside?”

Undeterred by their typical u-turn in conversation topics, Dean shrugs.

“I dunno, but I think you should **_wasp_** out regardless,” he cautions, ridiculous amounts of emphasis put on the word, “Y’know, **_bee_** careful and all.”

Ah, yes, good. Cas absolutely abhors bad puns. This will at least distract him from their previous conversation topic.

Right on cue, Cas’ eyes narrow to slits, and he’s looking at Dean like he’s gum on the bottom of his shoe spat out of the mouth of someone who walks really slowly and in the center of every sidewalk they come across talking loudly and obnoxiously on a cell phone.

“I don’t know,” Cas laments, leaning back, “why you continuously _insist_ on making such awful jokes.”

Dean grins.

“I think you mean _hilarious_ jokes,” he corrects, and Cas groans really loudly, which immediately sends Dean’s traitorous mind on another roller coaster of various heights of arousal. He adjusts himself in his seat, and thanks whatever deities are listening that Cas doesn’t dramatically groan a lot. As it is, he’s not sure how he survives most casual interactions with Cas without bending over the nearest table and presenting himself like a pig with an apple in its mouth at a fancy dinner party.

“No,” Cas says firmly, “I did not mean that at all.” He slides another tape in at random, and the strains of _The Who by Numbers_ start up.

When Dean peeks at him out of the corner of his eye, he catches the equivalent of a smile on Cas’ face; namely, the corner of his mouth is peaked and he doesn’t look like he wants to raze cities.

He huffs a laugh, and taps his fingers on the steering wheel.

***

They pull into a town called Green Haven, small enough that even the ever omnipotent Google can’t find it. With his computer science degree, Dean’s pretty sure this makes Cas extremely uncomfortable, and he can’t help but smirk. The internet is real helpful and all, except for when it’s not.

When he says as much to Cas, Cas merely glares at him and mutters something about him being stuck in the past, which Dean vehemently disagrees with. If he tries to eject the finished tape from the cassette player a little more subtly this time, it’s not for any specific reason. He also totally doesn’t eye the coffee stain completely covering the northeastern section of the United States on the map Cas currently has laid over his lap. (As a testament to how Dean’s life sometimes goes, Green Haven isn’t on the map, either, and the look Cas shoots him is so goddam self-satisfied that Dean feels the immense need to do something incredibly dramatic like kiss the stupid expression off Cas’ stupid face.)

“Well,” Dean comments as they roll down Main Street, (the only street, therefore the main street by default), “This is cozy.”

Cas’ mouth ticks up at the corner.

“I think you mean claustrophobic,” he says, as Dean parks on the side of the road in front of a wooden faced general store that looks more at home to cowboys drinking sarsaparilla than two just graduated college boys. Dean chuckles.

“This, Cas,” he makes a sweeping gesture that obnoxiously knocks into the side of Cas’ face, “is authenticity.”

Cas nods solemnly.

“’Save a horse, ride a cowboy,’” he quips dryly, like he expects a tumbleweed to roll by at any moment.

Dean coughs and scratches the back of his neck, deeply regretting that country phase Cas went through a while back. Cowboy fantasies have always been pretty prevalent in his nighttime dwellings, and he desperately tries to squash them down when they’re supposed to be buying snacks. (They are _not_ supposed to be fucking over the porch railing of the general store, for fuck’s sake.)

Despite Cas’ protests, they enter the store, bell tinkling above them. They’re browsing the aisles in silence, Dean trying to decide between hot rods and Cheez- Its, eventually settling on both, because he’s a firm believer in the four food groups (cheese, meat, sugar, salt).

“I didn’t think Twinkies had an expiration date,” Cas muses, holding a package of the offending snack cakes over the chip display between them for Dean’s inspection, “But it appears these particular ones are doing their damndest to prove me wrong.

Dean rolls his eyes.

“Dude. Twinkies are practically the only thing that’s going to survive a nuclear apocalypse,” he makes a face, then adds, “also cockroaches.”

He stares into the middle distance for a moment, a world of cockroaches a thought that requires serious contemplation. He comes out of it with an “eugh” and a shudder, and Cas looks on in stoic sympathy.

“We’ll be long dead by the time the world is overtaken by the joined might of the Twinkies and the roaches,” Cas assures Dean as he puts the snack cakes down and continues to look at everything with vague distaste.

They pay for their snacks (Cas having decided on the least offensive thing he could find with the furthest away expiration date) and head back towards the car. Dean bought the Twinkies just to spite Cas, and makes sure to toss them onto Cas’ seat before putting the bag of goods in the back.

As Cas slides into the car and notices them, he glares at them, and then at Dean. Then, in a move that would have Dean chortling for days if it happened to anyone but him, Cas opens the package and stuffs the cakes into his mouth, thereby spiting the spiter.

“You son of a bitch,” Dean says, half awed, as Cas chews.

“’hanks,” Cas gurgles through a mouthful of crumbs and cream, looking immensely pleased with himself.

Dean actually does huff a laugh as he turns the keys in the ignition, engine rumbling to life beneath them.

“Just don’t kiss me with that mouth,” he says, only half joking.

Cas swallows mightily, looking faintly queasy as he does so.

“That did not agree with me,” he announces, hand on his stomach.

“That’s the price you pay for being a dick,” Dean informs him as they reach the end of Main Street, and head back towards the exit back to the road, “It’s called karma.”

“I was doing you a favor by sparing you the horror of those abominations they’re passing off as edible.”

“I’m a college student, Cas. I would eat spaghetti off the sidewalk if it was cheap. Twinkies don’t scare me.”

“But cockroaches do,” Cas points out.

Dean smirks.

“Obviously it’s me overcompensating for my raging heterosexuality, right? Being afraid of _cock_ roaches and all.”

Cas shoots him a baleful glance, and Dean chuckles.

“Sorry, man. I’m never going to let you live that down. It couldn’t have been better if someone had actually written it into a story instead of, y’know, real life.

Cas sighs and stares melodramatically out the window.

“I suppose it was a rather humbling moment,” he admits, “and teaches me that I’m not a certified psychologist just because I took one psych class in freshman year.”

“The downfall of college students everywhere,” Dean agrees, and then shakes his head ruefully, “First year for me, I tried to debate with a psyche major in her third year about, fuck, I don’t even remember anymore. All I know is that she kicked my ass and it was one of the most embarrassing moments of my life. She _slaughtered_ me.”

“We’ve always been egotistical jackasses,” Cas confirms with a nod.

“I like dessert,” Dean says sagely, “Maybe we should cook ourselves up some humble pies.”

“Or we can spend a couple months in the real world and toughen up. Everyone seemed certain that would ‘show us’,” Cas suggests with included finger quotes.

Dean reaches out his window to rap his knuckles on the hood of the Impala.

“That’s what we’re doing, isn’t it?” he asks, “And I have to say, it ain’t bad.”

***

Cas has become… obsessed. With a song that Dean doesn’t like very much.

The first time Cas heard the song was when he finally pulled Dean’s cassette out of the tape player (not exactly gently, mind) and calmly informed him that if he had to listen to one more Metallica song he was going to personally make sure Dean would feel his discontent.

So the tape went back in the box and the box went into the trunk. Cas started to flip through the radio stations,  and luckily (or unluckily, if you’re Dean) they were close enough to real civilization that not only were they spared the typical honkytonk country of the boonies, but Cas actually managed to find a top forty station that to Dean’s unabashed horror, he seemed satisfied with.

“Uh, Cas,” Dean had begun weakly, trying not to sound like he was arguing- after all, they had just spent many _many_ hours listening to a deafening mixture of music made before the fall of the Berlin Wall, so it would be incredibly ungrateful for Dean to complain. He was just, ah, double checking that this is what Cas really wanted to listen to.

But before he could finish, Cas had shot him a glare that would freeze hellfire in its tracks, and Dean had immediately backed off.

Cas had tapped the beat of every song out on his knee with a relaxed, content look on his face, eyes closed in the passenger seat. Dean had gritted his teeth and tried to remind himself that just because he didn’t like pop music didn’t necessarily mean it sucked. Different strokes for different folks, and all.

But Christ it was hard. He had grown up on the warbling of Robert Plant and the guitars of Slash and the kick of Ozzy Osborne, and yet here he is, stuck with bubblegum pop and enough synthesizers to make ELO hang their head in shame.

It’s all well and good (as it can be) until _the song_ happens. Dean’s not really listening to the lyrics, having attempted to zone out a long time ago. But suddenly, Cas is sitting up, ramrod straight, unmoving, staring at the radio like it holds the secrets to the universe.

“Cas…?” Dean starts, but Cas irritably shushes him without even looking over at him.

Dean shuts up, but the song is already halfway over and he’s been zoning out for so long he has trouble focusing on trying to figure out whatever has Cas acting like a fucking dingbat. From what Dean can tell, it sounds exactly the same as every other song that’s been playing for the last couple hours, so he has no idea what’s supposed to be so special about it, but Cas sits, practically enraptured, for the entire rest of the playtime, so Dean just shrugs and sneaks a glance Cas’ way every now and again.

A couple minutes after the song is over, and a commercial break has started up, Cas thankfully shuts the radio off.

“We need to stop at the nearest mall,” he informs Dean, whipping out his smart phone and keying in a few phrases, “There’s one if you take the next exit and just keep heading straight for fifteen minutes.”

Dean raises an eyebrow.

“You gotta take a leak?”

Cas shakes his head.

“Hungry?”

Another shake.

“Cas, I’m not playing twenty fucking questions. Why are we stopping?”

“To pick something up,” Cas says, infuriatingly unhelpful, and Dean just rolls his eyes.

Fifteen minutes later he’s sitting by himself in a Wal-Mart parking lot because Cas refused to let him follow him into the store and deep down Dean knows this is a very, very bad idea.

He’s been friends with Cas for four years, now. He knows what he’s capable of. He’s seen Cas whip up computer viruses that completely shut down the school’s servers because he was pissed off Dean got a crappy mark on a term paper. He’s seen Cas horde cafeteria food only to fiddle around with it and blow it up in the microwave later because he felt like “it was the least the sloppy joe deserved”. He once woke up at 3am to the sound of Cas dragging a fucking couch down the hall because he had decided their dorm room needed one. And when the couch didn’t fit? Cas tossed it out the window after stealing the cushions.

Yeah. Dean’s definitely had an interesting college experience rooming with Cas. He’s also smart enough to be wary of the fucker when he gets that look in his eye that says, _I am going to do something and my mind is set on it so you will just have to watch and either help or get out of my way_. And as Cas got out of the car, that was the exact emotion in the glint of his eye.

Dean closes his eyes and tries not to worry about it. It’s not like Cas has ever done anything that could get them into serious trouble. (Although the school server thing was definitely toeing the line, and he started a fire in the dorms with the sloppy joe, and Dean’s never been sure where that couch came from in the first place, but he’s never _really_ crossed the line.)

After all, Cas is just… Cas. He tends to operate on a separate wavelength from everyone else, and Dean’s content enough with that as it is. Cas wouldn’t be Cas without that little spark of… well, _Cas_ ness.

So when the passenger side door opens up and Dean gets no couch cushions shoved in his face, he’s both weirdly disappointed and extremely relieved. Cas slides into the seat with just a simple grey Wal Mart bag, and Dean knows better than to ask what’s inside it by now. He’ll find out sooner or later.

“Ready to go?” He asks Cas, who just nods serenely, and they peel out of the parking lot.

As it turns out, Dean finds out what’s in the bag sooner.

The first warning light starts to flash when Dean sees Cas pull a CD out of the bag, and conveniently keeps a hand over the cover. He grabs his laptop from the backseat and opens it up, and slides the disc in. Dean, despite having a computer nerd for a best friend and now husband, can only hazard a guess at what Cas is doing, and assumes he’s putting the songs from the CD onto his computer. Next, Cas pulls a white cord from his laptop bag and plugs one end into where near the disc went in, and the other into his… ugh, iPod. Dean fucking _hates_ iPods.

Cas waits for a few minutes, and Dean cautiously switches the radio on, fiddling around with the dial until he comes on some old Johnny Cash. Cas doesn’t say anything, doesn’t even twitch, so Dean cautiously drops his guard.

Which, really, was an awful idea, because the next thing he knows, Cas has some weird ass fucking contraption attached to the cassette player, and his Johnny Cash station is lost to the ether.

“Dude,” Dean says, and hopes the word is enough to make Cas explain himself. True to form, though, Cas just ignores him and plugs a new cord into his iPod. And once again, the car is filled with cotton candy pop that makes Dean’s jaw click like he’s flying at thirty thousand feet and forgot a stick of gum.

“ _Cas_ ,” Dean complains, and no, he’s not pouting, but he’s certainly fucking displaying his displeasure with the situation. Cas doesn’t say anything, and just clicks the stupid wheel thing on his iPod a couple times before scrolling down and pressing it. To Dean’s surprise, the song changes, and while it is still shitty pop, he’s fairly sure it’s that song Cas was listening to so intently earlier.

“Really?” Dean asks, too surprised to be shocked, “You made me pull off the highway so that you could buy a CD for one song?”

Cas hums his agreement, obviously pleased with himself, and plays the song on repeat for about twenty minutes before some of the lyrics finally click into place in Dean’s head, and he almost bursts out laughing behind the wheel.

So, sure, it’s no couch being thrown out a window, but he has to hand it to Cas. The guy definitely isn’t afraid to go to extreme lengths to make a point. (Being carried bridal style in a field should probably have clued him into that, along with all over Cas related shenanigans in the past years, but this one is so mundane in its execution, and yet still so Cas, that it really just cements the idea in Dean’s head.)

Soon enough, Dean thinks their fellow drivers on the road are probably a little wary of the two dudes in the Impala blaring _Waking Up in Vegas_ and singing along loudly enough that they almost drown out the music, but he really, really doesn’t care, and he really, really loves the guy sitting next to him.

***

They hit Yosemite National Park, and that’s the day Dean learns he may be twenty three, but apparently one is never old enough to almost shit their pants when they see a bear.

The park is nice, though.

Cas tries to convince him to go hiking, but after the bear incident, Dean’s pretty sure his tree hugging days are steadfastly over. Cas does that thing where he doesn’t actually stick his bottom lip out but he pouts anyways and Dean idly considers kissing the expression off his stupid face (this is the second time he can recall thinking this exact phrase) but instead tells Cas to shut up.

“Dean, the bear was outside and we were in the car. It wasn’t going to hurt us.”

“Yeah, but if we go hiking and see one? No car to protect us, Cas! And I’m not in the mood to get eaten by a bear today or really any day!”

Cas sighs, his shoulders going up, then down, and he shakes his head slightly.

“Black bears aren’t known to attack humans, Dean. If we see a bear, we make noise and it goes away.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, are you a bear doctor now?”

Cas rolls his eyes.

“I just looked it up on the site. They tell you what to do if you see a bear.”

“Nope.” Dean shakes his head fervently. “Nope, no, nope. I don’t want to get eaten, and y’know, I don’t actually want _you_ to get eaten either.”

It’s weird that Cas backs off after that, but Dean shrugs it off, and tries to make amends by conceding to swimming.

They end up in the Merced River, on a fairly secluded beachy area, and luckily Cas usually sleeps only in his boxers (during the first couple weeks they lived together, Cas slept naked, and one day Dean woke up to the sight of Cas’ ass as he padded across the room, his morning wood had already taken a definite interest, and they had a very very long talk about proper bedtime attire when sharing a room) because otherwise Dean would probably be pretty floored by the wiry muscles and corded strength that is Cas’ torso, and he wouldn’t have had the foresight to prepare himself.

The area is beautiful, the trees absurdly tall, and sunlight filters down through the branches. In this kind of lighting, the water is the green of a koi pond, murky only in the sense that Dean can’t see the bottom of the river.

The water is also fucking freezing, holy _shit_. Cas spouts off about how mountain water is colder than average and it doesn’t take long for Dean’s nipples to harden enough to cut diamond. He manages to stay in the water for about ten minutes, but soon enough his teeth start to chatter and he climbs out to park his ass on a hunk of smooth driftwood a little further back on the beach. Cas takes to the water like… well, like a fish to water. (Dean’s really fucking cold his brain functions aren’t exactly up to scruff on the simile front at the moment.) He watches Cas cut through the water, all sharp angles and smooth execution, and he’s always figured Cas burns hotter than your average Joe, so really this just proves that theory.

Finally, Cas decides he’s had enough for the time being and comes to join Dean on his makeshift bench. As soon as he sits down, he immediately jumps back up with a mild, “Oh.”

“ _What_?” Dean asks, still really fucking cold and maybe being a little bit of a baby about it.

“You’re very cold,” Cas tells him, like he doesn’t already know that.

“Oh, am I?” Dean says sardonically, “I didn’t notice.” He eyes Cas suspiciously, “You literally just got out of the water. How _aren’t_ you freezing?” He asks, and thinks, _this is it, this is the moment Cas tells me he’s an alien_.

Cas shrugs, water droplets spilling off him and landing on Dean, who grumbles fantastically. “I just don’t get cold as easily as other people, I guess.”

“Well then how about you fucking warm me up, then?” Dean bites, and he means it sarcastically (kind of), but when Cas just tilts his head in acquiescence and then rejoins Dean on the driftwood and sits _really fucking close to him_ , Dean realizes that maybe some of that sarcasm got lost in translation.

Cas isn’t exactly hesitant when he places a palm on Dean’s forearm, but he does it with a certain deliberateness that makes Dean grit his teeth, because it’s like Cas is being cautious, is being careful about this, like it _means something_.

And he knows he would be a fucking fool to think this doesn’t mean something. He’s been in love with Cas for a long time, but there’s always been reasons why it can’t happen. He has to focus on school, he has to focus on his job, he’s afraid to fuck up their friendship, etc etc, lather, rinse, repeat. Always a reason. Not to mention the giant, glaring fact that he’s not sure Cas feels the same way. Yeah, that’s just another minor roadblock.

Dean’s not really bitter about it. In fact, he’s hardly bitter about it. He’s “been” with Cas for four years now, and he’s pretty sure Cas isn’t going anywhere anytime soon. All that angst was sorted through in the closing months of Cas’ dally in whatever the fuck he was dallying in, all the “don’t go’s” and “stay’s” that Dean had to cough up like it was a fucking kidney or something he had jammed in his throat. In some weird, twisted way, he’s actually kind of glad it got to the point where he had to say those things. Otherwise, he doesn’t think he’d have the balls. If that whole ordeal had taught him anything, it’s that he often needs a swift kick in the pants to get him to realize just how much he cares about people, and he’s pretty sure it was during that time he realized he was so far gone on Cas that he would be willing to stick through literally anything until Cas finally told him where the door was.

But Cas never said that. Not even during the worst of their fights. Cas always seemed to want him around, even though he was the one who left more often than not. After the whole thing, after the word, “stay” finally penetrated Cas’ thick skull, he made fucking good on his promise. He hasn’t left Dean’s side since (figuratively, of course. Literally would just be weird.). There are days, honestly, when Dean thinks Cas is never going to stop making it up to him, and while it’s good to know Cas isn’t going anywhere, he also doesn’t want Cas to keep feeling like he _owes_ him. It happened, they made it through, it’s over.

The point is, though, somehow it’s all culminated in Cas’ warm hand on his forearm as they sit by the Merced river in the shadows of trees old enough to have given oxygen to his great great grandparents. Four years of basically the entire spectrum of friendship, and they ended up here. Even if it’s nothing more than a friendly gesture to warm him up, Dean thinks he might be okay with this. The Impala and crappy diner food and crappier motel beds and a body in the passenger’s seat. It’s a picture he thinks he’d like to look at again, one that he’d like creased and worn from being folded and refolded so many times, drawing a soft, nostalgic smile out of him like a particularly good crosshatch or an incredibly smooth cast of a fishing line.

Cas’ eyes are huge, the kind of blue that depends on the lighting, that change shades like most people change socks. He’s gazing at Dean, muted, soft, gentle, but watchful. His palm slowly inches along Dean’s arm, fingers grazing the softer, whiter skin underneath, and Dean’s stopped breathing, forgotten it’s a necessary life function.

He wants to ask, “What’s happening?”, “What is this?”, “Do you mean it?”, and a whole host of other, unsatisfactory questions that probably don’t have much in the way of answers. Instead all that comes out is a choked, hushed, “Cas,” and he supposes it depends on the degree Cas is inclining his head if he chooses to take it as a statement or a question. Really, it wasn’t either. Just a way of reminding himself that this is real.

Cas shifts closer on the log, and he’s gently tapping the pads of his fingertips against the knuckles of Dean’s hands. Lightly, and for some reason, Dean thinks of dancers in the ballet, the nimbleness of their feet and the sweet bounce of their tutus. Cas has an artist’s hands, he thinks. Whether all that typing honed them, or it was something he was born with, Cas has beautiful hands, graceful and tender, with the potential to be terrible. Dean’s tended to an innumerable amount of scratches and bruises on Cas’ knuckles over the years, be it from a drunken bar brawl or defending Dean from the guy who thought his lips were an excuse to accost him for a blow job.

“Dean,” he responds quietly, and the thing about Cas’ private moments, even if they’re only with himself, is that he lets you feel like you’re in on the joke as well. Cas hums contentedly, more a vibration that Dean can feel in his fingertips rather than hear with his ears, and it’s weird, because he thought this would be the part he started to freak out, started to worry about how it’s going to ruin this or that between them.

But then he realizes he doesn’t have to worry about school anymore, or about his job anymore. And they’ve already established the fact that Cas isn’t going anywhere. Sam is safe at Stanford and Bobby is safe in Kansas.

Everything is _okay_.

It’s a weird feeling, and one that Dean initially wants to push away from. Because if nothing is wrong, then there’s nothing he needs to fix. There are no sick parents to deal with. No houses to sell. No colleges to apply to. No brothers to raise and no crusty old almost-uncles to accuse him of stealing the last bottle of Jack. No best friend on the verge of self-destruction.

And then Dean realizes, it’s not just that everything is okay. It’s that he’s _happy_.

And that’s just the fucking cherry on top of this whole ridiculous trip, and he fucking _giggles_ , and he doesn’t care. He leans in, presses his forehead against Cas’, makes a grasp for Cas’ hand, and he’s smiling so wide it hurts his face.

Cas, understandably a bit bewildered by the abrupt change in mood, seems to roll with it about as well as anyone could be expected to, and eases into a smile that lights up his whole face, and Dean doesn’t think he’s _ever_ seen anything so beautiful. Something inside his chest clutches, but instead of vicelike, like he’s experienced in the past, and as dumb as it sounds, it just feels like someone’s hugging him really fucking tight.

Another laugh bubbles out of him, unbidden, and he bumps his and Cas’ foreheads together one more time, and then he stands up, dragging Cas with him.

“Ready to go?” He asks, and Cas, a little dumbfounded, a little struck, maybe, nods.

 

iii.

 

 

They make it to Sam’s eventually. After visiting wineries and the redwood forests of northern California that Cas seems to practically melt into he’s so _one with nature_. After laying out in fields in the middle of the night and then Dean practically having a heart attack because he found a tick crawling up his arm and then swearing off nature _for real this time Cas I swear to god_. After endless county roads and highways and skeevy motels with neon signs that sputter like a criminal who just got confronted with overwhelming evidence of his crime.

The thing Dean’s come to realize about California is that everyone thinks it’s all beaches and boardwalks and tans and surfing. But the California he’s been privy to has been all muted lighting and trees that reach skywards like they’re the world’s leading experts on sun salutations and forests and things that seem a lot more reminiscent of say, the wilderness of Canada than anything to be found in the United States. Not that he’s complaining. It’s been pretty great.

The thing about Dean and Cas, is that they’ve always worked. Opposites attracts, but just as much like attracts like. Generally, Dean’s the extroverted, boisterous one, and Cas is the self-reflecting, why-are-we-here contemplating dreamer when he’s not busy doing smart kid stuff on the computer. But there are days when Cas just yammers on and on about every little thing he sees, and Dean won’t speak for hours barring “hmms” and “yeahs” when conversation calls for it. They know how to be silent together, and they definitely know how to fight. Cas is just a part of Dean’s life now, like breakfast, like a friendly beer on the couch after a long day at the garage. They carved spaces out for each other a long time ago, and it’s just about maintaining the architecture, about subtle new ways for them to integrate even more seamlessly into each other’s lives.

This comradeship follows them onto the road, and Dean thinks that the great thing about Cas is that his friendship is basically like that ugly Christmas sweater you keep for years on end because you can’t bear to throw it away. Cas is a constant, is safe and warm and familiar, and Dean hasn’t had a lot of that in his life, what with a childhood spent in motel rooms and trailing behind his dad like he was the Second Coming.

Sam greets them at a little out of the way café that Dean highly doubts he can order a burger at. Dean’s little brother is looking tanned and happy and healthy, and Dean envelopes him in a hug as soon as he sees him with a genuine, “Good to see ya, Sammy.”

Sam claps him on the back and says, “You too, Dean,” and then looks at Cas, not as familiar, but still family, and says, “Hey, Cas.”

Cas says, “Hello, Sam,” and it’s kind of awkward because Dean thinks both of them are considering a hug but neither are moving their arms in the appropriate manner, so he ushers everyone into their seats, him and Cas on one side of the booth and Sam on the other. Dean and Cas are sitting closer than what’s considered platonic but Sam doesn’t say anything, even though Dean thinks he catches a slight brow quirk.

No, San Francisco is a pride city. Dean honestly thinks part of the reason Sam moved out west is because he loves rainbows so much. They’re fucking everywhere here.

“So,” Sam starts, grin wide, “All done, huh?”

Dean cocks a finger gun at Sam, winking. “You bet, little bro,” he sighs, “And it feels oh so good.”

Their waitress comes and takes their orders, and she definitely makes some googly eyes at Cas before heading back into the kitchen. (And yeah, unless Dean wanted something called tofurkey, there’s no burgers here, as far as he’s concerned.)

“What about you?” Dean asks, resting his arm along the top of the booth behind Cas, “Any big lawyerly hijinks happening yet?”

Sam rests his elbows on the table and huffs laughter, running his hand through his hair.

“Getting there,” he admits, almost sheepishly, and Dean feels a surge of pride swell up in him. His baby brother, not so much a baby anymore, is going to be a big smarty pants lawyer who wears a monkey suit every day.  It’s awesome.

“You’re not gonna get there with that haircut,” Dean teases, and Sam snorts and shakes his head ruefully.

“What about you, Cas?” Sam asks, switching his focus. “Glad to be done?”

Cas taps his finger on the table a couple of times in thought, before saying, “Glad to be _here_ ,” and Dean most definitely does not flush. Sam smiles, though, and the waitress brings their drinks (no alcohol for Dean, who’s driving, water for Cas and Sam, the pansies.)

Sam nods, obviously satisfied with the answer.

“You guys look happy,” he observes, and it’s innocent enough, a typical Sam Winchester reflection. Regardless, it seems like the kind of thing that would get Dean’s hackles immediately on the rise.

Except that it totally doesn’t.

Instead, Dean finds himself basking in it, inexplicably happy that others can see how he and Cas move around each other, about how they _enjoy_ each other.

He feels himself relaxing back into the booth, kicks his feet out a little more underneath the table, and curls the hand stretched across the back of the booth around to tug playfully at Cas’ hair. Cas raises an eyebrow at him, but Dean just grins.

“Yeah,” he says, resting two gentle knuckles against the back of Cas’ neck, “We are.”

***

“So,” Sam says later, joining Dean outside, “You and Cas, huh?”

The “friend” Sam’s staying with for a while turns out to be a very lovely girl by the name of Jessica Moore.  She seemed more than pleased to host Dean and Cas for a couple days, and laid a lingering hand on Sam’s shoulder before heading out to run some errands. Yeah, Dean’s seen that expression before. Sam is totally gone on her. He thinks it must be a Winchester family trait to look like your insides just turned to goo when you interact with the person you love. Gross.

Dean shrugs, but knows the quirk of his lips betray him.

“You and Jessica, huh?” he returns with.

“Jess,” Sam corrects automatically with one of the dopiest smiles Dean’s ever seen, “And hey, we’re not toting matching pawn shop rings, so…”

Dean leans his forearms onto the porch railing, looking up at Sam.

“That was…” he begins, wondering what exactly it _was_ , because he and Cas sure haven’t talked about it. All he knows is that no one’s signing divorce papers quite yet, “Unexpected,” he finishes as truthfully as possible.

Sam nods sagely.

“Vegas?” he asks.

“Yup.”

Sam laughs.

“Well, frankly, I’m surprised it took you this long to get hitched. You did go to school like twenty minutes away from the Strip, after all.”

“I have standards!” Dean protests.

“Obviously,” Sam grins, “Since you married _Cas_.” He claps Dean on the shoulder, and Dean’s pretty sure Sam has been working out to impress Jess or something, because it’s a pretty fucking solid clap. “You two are good together.”

“I know,” Dean says, because he really does.

Sam leans against one of the pillars framing the opening to the yard, face open and expectant.

“So, what’s next?” he asks, “I mean, you’re done, obviously. But, like, what _next_?”

“You’ll impress _so_ many judges with scathing questions like that, Sammy. Clear and concise.”

“Shut up.”

Dean straightens up, rests his hip against the lip of the railing, crosses his arms and shrugs.

“I dunno, man. We’re gonna make our way east after this, I think. Look for a place, maybe? Or hell, who knows, maybe we’ll just be nomads for the rest of our lives, taking odd jobs and living like a pair of drifters.”

Sam’s expression shifts, highlighted by the lone, orangey porch light. It’s dark out, the sun having set about half an hour ago. He seems sad, suddenly. Young.

“After how we lived as kids?” he says quietly, and it’s like he’s seven years old again, asking Dean why they have to change schools for the fifth time in six months, and nothing can cut Dean quicker than a vulnerable, desolate Sam. “You want a _home_ , Dean,” Sam insists, “and someone to make it with.”

Dean shrugs again, suddenly uncomfortable. Sam knows him better than anyone, yeah, and he can hear the truth ringing in his words but the word home is so _permanent_. This thing with Cas, at school, on the road, has been great. Amazing. But domesticity? Bickering over who did the dishes last and whose turn it is to do groceries. Late night TV and hogging the sheets and using up all the hot water. “How was your day honey” and “have a good day at work”. It’s not for him.

But then again…

They argued over dishes at school. (The cereal bowl incident can attest to that.) They went on snack runs. (Together, actually, and when Dean puts it in a domestic context, the idea of doing groceries with Cas has its own kind of awkward, nerd boy appeal.) They’ve watched more late night TV than Dean is comfortable admitting. (The amount of times Dean’s had to talk Cas out of buying a snuggie is incredible.) They always asked each other how their day was. Dean’s pretty sure he’s even called Cas ‘honey’ jokingly before.

So maybe they’ve managed to find themselves in a setting that’s domestic, but not outwardly so. He supposes that he and Cas have built themselves a home together ( _in_ each other, perhaps), and that’s about all he’s ever wanted. Maybe a place where they could actually store all their groceries would just be the logical next step.

Sam doesn’t seem to expect an answer. He just pats Dean on the shoulder one more time before heading back inside, the screen door creaking after him, settling into place with a quiet groan of springs.

So Dean thinks about it.

***

The rest of their time passes at Sam’s without incident. Dean’s pretty sure about thirty hours into their stay at Jess’ that she’s the One. The way Sam talks about her and the way he looks at her is more than enough evidence for Dean.

Sam and Jess share a room, Dean and Cas switch between the guest room and the couch that becomes a bed in the living room. On the third night, though, Dean hears the springs of the shitty couch bed for two hours straight (Jess had apologized profusely, saying it was inherited from her grandmother and was approximately a million years old) and after deliberating for way too long, he finally padded down the hallway to drag Cas back to the guest room.

It’s awkward, at first. Cas protests, but Dean just grumps at him to shut up and get in the bed. The sheets are soft and comfortable, and Dean thinks Jess uses some kind of special detergent on them, because they smell like ocean air. They’re soft blue with a white, down comforter, and when Dean glances over his shoulder to see the lump of sheets that is Cas beside him, he feels an inexplicable lump in his throat, and does his best to swallow mightily past it.

They have their backs to each other, and Dean’s curled up so tightly on his side of the bed that there may as well be a canyon between them, which is all kinds of awful because he can feel the body heat radiating from Cas’ side of the bed. It annoys him that he was nice and comfortable before he practically forced Cas into bed with him, and now he doesn’t think he’s going to be comfortable unless they actually _share_ the bed.

He blows out a frustrated breath, and then immediately tries to suck it back in because he doesn’t want Cas to hear. In fact, he immediately stops all bodily functions possible, and basically becomes an ice sculpture.

It’s weird that he’s nervous about this, because all actions by the lake back in Yosemite would indicate this is exactly where their relationship is heading. But his earlier conversation with Sam has unsettled him, somewhat, and he’s straddling the line again between what he wants and what he thinks is actually going to happen, and it’s definitely a balancing act, but he doesn’t think he’s doing very well.

It’s only when Cas speaks, a hoarse, low, “Dean, either you’re dead or just saw a ghost. Please dispel my fears,” that Dean realizes Cas must have heard his breath and then immediate stiffness. Perks of _sharing_ a bed, of course.

He turns onto his back, flicks his eyes over to where Cas is laying on his side, now towards him.

“I’m fine, Cas.”

They’re quiet for a moment, and Dean finally starts to breathe again. They’re closer now.

“I believe,” Cas starts to say, and Dean hears somewhat of a smugness underlining his tone, “that the protocol for when someone is frightened by a ghost is to offer them comfort.”

Dean stops breathing again. His lungs are going to hate him.

“I didn’t see a ghost,” he says quietly, unconvincingly.

Dean feels the mattress dip a little bit more as Cas scoots just a tiny bit closer.

“ _Dean_ ,” he prompts, voice unbearably level, “the _protocol_ is for _someone_ to offer you _physical comfort_.”

Dean licks his lips.

“Uh, yeah,” he says, scratching his cheek, “Yeah, maybe I did see a ghost.”

Cas _hmm_ s in sympathetic agreement.

“I thought so,” he mumbles, and presses a hand to Dean’s shoulder, guiding him to turn back onto his side. Dean puts his back to Cas again, and Cas lines himself up, knees fitting in the curves of Dean’s own, stomach to lower back, Cas’ nose buried in the nape of his neck.

“Boo,” he says quietly, breath tickling Dean’s ear and ghosting (ha) down the line of his jaw. Dean huffs laughter, and grasps for Cas’ hand when it slides across his waist, leaving a trail of goosebumps in its wake. Their joined hands are resting against Dean’s stomach, Cas’ thumb rubbing soothing circles on Dean’s skin.

Slowly, he relaxes back into Cas, and slowly, Cas relaxes into him. They breathe in tandem.

Dean feels like he wants to talk. Just- stream of consciousness babble, about anything and everything, from the weather in Alabama to the color of the wheat fields in Kansas in the summertime. But silence has always been a _thing_ with them, comfortable. A way to speak without actually speaking.

But right now, in this position, warm body curled around another like they make up a fucking quotation mark or some shit (which is annoyingly appropriate), Dean is afraid the silence is going to say things that he’ll never have the guts to actually say, things that he’s dreamt about saying, and fantasized about saying, but the actual physical act of working the words up his throat, onto his tongue, to Cas, so that Cas understands just how much—

Yeah.

No more job. No more school. No more brother to parent.

Maybe those were all just excuses anyway.

Maybe he’s just scared. Or a coward. Or afraid of rejection. Or afraid he’s not worth it; afraid he’s not worth _Cas_.

Maybe it’s a lot of things.

A lot of things he should _say_ , perhaps. Talk may be cheap, but what Dean needs to do isn’t _talk_. Talking means the recipient of said talk may not understand what he’s trying to say. That won’t do.

He needs to communicate. Like a—

Oh, god. Like a grown up. Like a willing participant in a relationship. Like an actual, functional human being who’s not allergic to emotion, only cats.

“Cas-” Dean starts, voice wavering, stretching and breaking, and Woody Harrelson in _Zombieland_ ’s sage advice gives him the push he needs. Time to nut up or shut up, boy.

And then Cas shuts it all down by pressing his lips to the back of Dean’s neck, effectively rendering both him and his _Zombieland_ -watching brain mute.

“Later, Dean,” Cas murmurs against his skin, soothing. Dean can feel Cas’ eyelashes fluttering against the short, sensitive hairs on the back of his neck, and he knows Cas’ eyes are open, kind. “Please just relax. I want you to be okay. Be okay with this first, please.”

Dean squeezes his eyes shut tight. Okay, so maybe having a heart to heart at 2am in his brother’s girlfriend’s guest bedroom in San Francisco when both of them are half asleep isn’t the best idea. He can roll with that.

“Is this okay?” Cas asks, his breath blowing gently against Dean’s skin, like the gentle breeze that flutters the white curtains hanging above the open window; _but not as sweet_ , Dean thinks sappily, idly.

Dean clears his throat, and it sounds incredibly loud in the night.

“Yeah, Cas,” he whispers, and tightens his hold on Cas’ hand, “It’s okay.”

***

They say goodbye to Sam and Jess after a few more days. Sam is standing behind her on the porch, hands around her waist, blond hair tickling his chin, and they both wave as Dean and Cas start the drive back east.

It’s always hard saying goodbye to Sam, but Dean leaves knowing he’s happy. They told him last night that Jess was going back to Kansas with him for a while, to meet the family aka Bobby. Who knows, maybe she’ll do the old man some good. She’s certainly whipped Sam into shape, even though she hasn’t convinced him to cut his damn hair yet.

Sam looks good out west. Dean thinks his baby brother was built for surfer dude hair and sunshine and cargo shorts, as absurd as they are. Something about the Pacific agrees with him, about the rainbows and the breeze and the sheer _life_ of the place.

Sam is happy out here, and Dean’s convinced Sam’s going to stay happy out here. He’s going to become an awesome lawyer and put bad guys in jail and on the weekends he and Jess are going to walk hand in hand along the boardwalk while the sun sets over the Pacific Ocean.

And it’s not that Dean doesn’t _like_ California, per se. After all, he spent four years of his life in the state next to it, practically straddling the border. He loved northern California, the redwoods and the greenery.  

But it’s not where he wants to be.

He’s not sure where that is, yet. But he figures that’s the whole point of this, anyway. First, he and Cas have to find a home.

Then they will make it their own.

***

“I enjoyed California,” Cas says as they cross the border into Oregon. Not mournfully, but mildly. No strong attachment. “I enjoyed meeting Jess, and seeing Sam again.” Fondness creeps into his tone. “They seem happy.”

Dean huffs a laugh. “Yeah, a lot of that seems to be going around lately.”

Cas nods, pleased.

“You deserve happiness, Dean.”

Dean drums his fingers on the steering wheel, even though they haven’t bothered to turn on any music yet. 

“You too, Cas.”

Dean has his eyes on the road, but he feels Cas turn his gaze onto his face.

“I’m happy with you, Dean,” he says, eyes big and blue and so damn sincere.

Dean’s looking at the ring on the fourth finger of his left hand as he says, “Me too, man. Happy with you, I mean. Not me.”

“It can be both,” Cas asserts, and Dean thinks maybe he has a point.

***

They share beds, now. It’s just kind of a thing that happened, and Dean’s pretty sure neither of them are complaining. More often than not, they wake up in a sweaty tangle of limbs, even though Cas has somehow managed to steal every last sheet during the night. Dean will wake up clammy, and prod Cas through his burrito like blanket coverage until he finally decides to join the world of the waking long enough to share again.

Some days, they’ll stay in bed till check out time. Other days, Dean will get the inexplicable and unquenchable urge to watch the sunrise, so he’ll drag Cas out of bed at the asscrack of dawn, and they’re on the road, literally driving off into the sunrise.

When Cas points out with a surprising blip of pop culture knowledge that he believes the phrase is, “To _ride_ off into the sun _set_ , Dean”, Dean has the (not so) inexplicable urge to kiss his grumpy, squinty little face.

If he does it in the morning, though, he thinks Cas would drop steaming gas station coffee onto his junk. Perhaps justifiably so.

So he waits.

He touches Cas and Cas touches him. Fingers encircling wrists, knuckles grazing down forearms, even feet touching under tables in roadside diners all through Oregon.

***

It rains in Washington. Unsurprisingly.

Dean and Cas share an umbrella and get soaked by the rain anyways. Cas gently dries Dean’s hair off with a hand towel , one hand cradling his jaw to keep his head still as he rubs deliberate strokes through the natural spikes.

Dean whips Cas’ ass with a towel as he’s getting off the bed and wolf whistles when Cas glares at him.

Dean wakes up in the middle of the night when Cas rolls on top of him, straddling him, pressing his foreheads to Dean’s.

“I didn’t know you were into whips, Dean,” he says, breathing harshly into Dean’s mouth, and Dean didn’t realize he could go from dead asleep to rock hard in his boxers so quickly.

Call Dean a prude (don’t actually do that) but he finds it hilarious that him and Cas haven’t kissed yet. Yeah, hey, Cas, sit on my dick and torture the poor guy some more, but don’t kiss me.

Dean has a theoretical knowledge of how Cas works in the bedroom. Cas has always been an unconventional kind of guy. Dean can dig it. (In fact, Dean digs it very, very much.)

The only… not _problem_ , exactly, but _difference_ , between him and Cas, is that deep down, Dean wants to be the kind of guy to bring his date flowers and offer them his jacket if it gets cold out.

Deep down, (maybe not so deep, after all) Dean’s pretty sure Cas is a kinky sex god who can bend into a thousand positions and would rather rob a bank on a first date than going to grab a beer.

And really, Dean’s not complaining. It’s just a matter of reconciling their different approaches and compromising and making room for the other’s needs.

He feels really mature about that particular character revelation until he realizes this is exactly what he and Cas have been doing for years anyways. Compromising, whether consciously or not, and learning to still be themselves while allowing the other _into_ themselves. In a totally not sexual way.

Not yet, anyways, if Dean’s (and, he suspects, Cas’) blue balls have anything to say about it.

***

Idaho is nice. They don’t stay long.

There’s way more mountains in America than Dean ever realized.

***

They drive down into Wyoming, through to Nebraska, if only to get away from the fucking mountains.

“Mountains are great,” Dean says at the beginning of the detour, “But I’m still a Kansas boy, dude. I need my plains.”

“’Boy dude’,” is all Cas says in response to that.

***

In South Dakota, they stay with an old friend of Bobby’s in Sioux Falls.

Sherriff Jody Mills had persuaded the mayor of Sioux Falls to buy Bobby’s old place after Bobby moved out to Kansas for Sam and Dean. Now it’s a… library/museum/halfway house that Jody runs on her days off, and various other Good Samaritans keep running every other day of the week.

As kids, they would sometimes visit “Uncle” Bobby. Summers spent among dusty tomes, initially boring, always gave way to unearthing some beautifully rotted old book of stories or another, and before they knew it, Sam and Dean were off, sirens and sailors and creatures that go bump in the night.

This house has been good to Dean. Even though Bobby’s been in Kanas for a while, the old place still smells the same. Musty, stuffy, but homey. Old books and ink and parchment and still just that hint of rank whiskey Bobby used to consume by the gallon.

Cas has never been here, has no connection to the place, so it probably doesn’t make any narrative sense that Dean kisses him for the first time here, but he does it anyway.

They’re alone in the library, Cas digging through a frankly impenetrable Japanese book about… something, and Dean’s just sitting on the couch, staring at him trying to make either heads or tails of the words in front of him. The kicker is that Cas doesn’t speak Japanese, not a lick of it. There’s no way he could possibly know what a single thing in that book says.

And yet he’s still standing there, mouthing words he doesn’t know how to pronounce, so fucking endearing that it makes Dean’s heart swell two sizes too big and suddenly Dean can’t talk but he needs to do something, or else the feeling is going to explode out of his chest and get them both covered in chest gunk, and really, who is Dean to argue against chest gunk?

So he stands up and strides over to Cas, who’s standing in the middle of the room. Cas, obviously too engrossed in not knowing what the hell he’s reading, pays Dean’s shuffling no mind until fits his palms to Cas’ cheeks, and kisses him smack dab on the mouth.

There’s the loud _thump_ of Cas dropping the book, and Dean feels the whoosh of air and dust blow by his calves, but most feeling after that rushes north again when Cas fists his hand in Dean’s hair and kisses him back like there’s no place he’d rather be.

Their mouths slot together, and it takes a moment of stubbly shuffling before they find their rhythm, Cas’ other hand, originally (comically) extended straight out to the side, now coming to a rest on Dean’s hip, his other hand still firmly lost in Dean’s hair, tugging gently. Dean’s thumbs are stroking the soft skin under Cas’ eyes, still cradling his face like something precious.

There are a lot of breaths abandoned halfway through, a lot of hitched gasps, muted groans, but they’re relatively quiet. The first thing either of them says after they break apart, staring at each other with wide eyes and stubble burn, comes courtesy of Cas, a slightly dumbfounded, “ _Arigato_.”

Dean practically busts a gut laughing, and then kisses him again.

***

South Dakota turns into Iowa, turns into Illinois, to Indianapolis.

Dean and Cas kiss a lot.

***

Indianapolis turns into Ohio turns into Pennsylvania.

The further east they go, the easier the kisses come. One day, as they’re leaving a Ma and Pa diner with red and cracked vinyl booths, the bell tinkling behind them on their way out, Cas spins Dean against the nearest wall, and… nips him on the tip of the nose.

Neither of them say anything for a minute.

“I was curious,” Cas says, and then kisses the tip of Dean’s nose for good measure.

“You’re so gross,” Dean tells him, but his eyes crinkle at the corners as he says it.

Later that night, Dean says goodnight by kissing Cas on the tip of the nose.

***

Pennsylvania turns into New York (which stresses Dean out an unbelievable amount; he’s not claustrophobic, but _wow_ there’s a lot of people in New York, and it feels so much more… closed off than the west ever did.)

New York becomes Vermont becomes New Hampshire.

They have sex for the first time in a tiny, out of the way inn in New Hampshire, surrounded by the changing leaves that signify autumn is well on its way. (Dean always forgets how long they stayed in South Dakota.)

There are mountains in New Hampshire, and even though he still aches for the flat plains of Kansas sometimes, he thinks that really, these mountains are nothing compared to the ones he and Cas have climbed.

Cas whispers into his skin that night that it took everything to get him here, and he loves Dean loves him so much it scares him but it also makes him feel like he can move mountains, and Dean laughs gently because he _kinda knows the feeling_.

Dean kisses the bolt of Cas’ jaw and holds on for dear life and begs Cas to stay because he wants to, not because he still thinks he owes Dean for everything that happened last year, and Cas peppers his face with kisses and vows that he’ll never stop being grateful, but there’s also nowhere he’d rather be than here, with you, Dean.

Dean tells Cas he’ll never regret asking him to get married, and Cas tells Dean he’ll never regret saying yes.

***

They end up in Maine, which _does_ actually have narrative significance.

An entire country they’ve traveled. A Winchester on each coast. A happy Winchester on each coast, no less.

Same sex marriage is legal in Maine as well, which is always a bonus.

They find a place. It’s small, an apartment. Kind of shitty, but they don’t care because it’s theirs. Cas does some computer stuff and Dean does stuff Dean does and they start saving up. Maybe they’ll move to a nicer place, maybe they won’t.

They actually do end up climbing a literal mountain at one point.

It’s easy as pie, but only because they cooked it together.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Drag](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1057287) by [liquorish](https://archiveofourown.org/users/liquorish/pseuds/liquorish)




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